Friday, November 25, 2011

There are pieces of me all over the world.All over the country in different placeswith different people. The different peoplehold these pieces. Some have cherished them,some have thrown them away. Some don'tknow what to do with them, some take themout and hold them for a little while and putthem away. Some pieces are large, some piecesare quite small. Some pieces are incrediblytiny, and it seems at times that pieces of myheart, my body, my mind, my soul add upto being more than that which is me, that whichstill breathes, and talks.

That makes new friends and leaves morepieces and doesn't try to catch them as theyfall, but lets them fall like leaves or pine conesor lets them fly like seed pods and hope that theyland some place safely. And of the me that I am,and of these pieces which I can no longer claimin three cites now, I am present. In so many livesthey wonder where I am, where I've gone, why itseems so appropriate only to see me in passing,to say hi or just pass on by. As if I still lived there,as if I were always there among them, my friends,and what a joy when someone on some day iscarrying a piece of me and they embrace meand they try to find where exactly the piece theyhave came from, and put it back where it belongsso I can feel it again before letting them take itback to go on their merry way with yet anotherlittle piece that's all theirs, so that now they mayhave two.

And when I come home I am alone again, myremaining pieces safe, and I can't count how manythere are, and I can't count how many have beenlost, broken, stolen, or given away. But I cancount these people who I call my friends and lovers,who I still love who are spread out in so many placeswho must feel some change int he air pressurewhen I come back, who perhaps reach out to touchme and hope that i have not left yet again.

I am not selfish with myself, and I give my pieces awayfreely, but how nice it would be I wonder to have allof these pieces in one place, not all mine but that belongto someone else who can count them all, who knows whereall of them belong. Someone, who keeps them alltogether, big and small in a cupboard like a glass menagerieof fragments that all fit together just right, and some howadd up to make another me, a better me, a sweeter me.And how nice if I could hold their pieces, some one who'sbeen there the whole time, who knows that their piecesare safe with me.

And some times, when we come together,all our places where our missing parts belong fit togetherjust right, or all of my people in all of my places come tosee me all at one time and put me back together piece bypiece just to see what I would look like.

But you live the life that there is to be lived.You let more pieces fall away, and perhaps if you thinkof it, you can take a picture, or write your name ona wall that says "I was here once, and a piece of me willnever leave."

You've been playing the waitinggame for a very long time. You've losttrack of the hours, the days, the monthsand the years that you've been alone,on your own. Be it a small apartment,or a rather large house. You see thehappy couples, you see the unhappycouples, but you see two peopletogether doing their best to preservewhatever it is that they refer to as 'love'and you are so envious of that wordwhich they say to each other whenno one is listening.

You've developed a habit of occupying thetime you would have spent with another.You've taken up hobbies,You've started a career.You've taken up jogging perhaps,and weight training maybe, if age permits.

You've taken up painting landscapes on sunday,or fixing old model trains- and then a song comeson, and it stops you in your tracks. You look around-you and see how empty your house is, the tinyamount of space taken up by the dog or the cat,the one place at the table, and the song's sweetnesshits you in the gut, or in the chest, and you feel thatsweetness rise up to your throat as if it were making you sickand you hasten to change the station, or get away fromthe sound, or listen, and let it run its course, letthe sweetness sicken you, and bawl silentlyspewing tears. You whine the way a stalled enginetries to start, and then, you return to you're activitiesor go off to work.

Perhaps you think of the lostopportunities, perhaps youtry to call a friend and they'rebusy, perhaps you wonderhow much time you've gotleft to play the waiting game,to play the wanting card, youthink, "lonely hearts are betterthan broken ones" and then youremember.

Perhaps it wasonly once that you knew it, thatyou knew the wait was over,and suddenly, without warning,you have the most beautifulface, you have the most soulfuland seductive voice,and you move light as air as ifeverything around youwas set to the beating of your heart,and you say 'a lonely heartis better than a broken one,' anda winner never quitssimply because they've been leftstanding at the altar.

You remember a second, aninstant when the clouds partedand you were allowed to walkoutside; and the sweet wassweet and the bitter was bitterand there was no in between,and you return to your hobby,or to your dog and you rememberthat the loneliness will be forgottenagain, as it had been in thepast, and you remember the timeyou spent waiting before, andyou think not of the loneliness,but of the accomplishments made insolitude. Even if they were modest,or hard for other people tobelieve. And you remember thosedays when being alone meantlistening to the leaves fall from thetrees, seeing your reflection ina pane of window-glassin front of a departmentstore, and it pleased youto see that figure of yourself, solitaryand free standing approach adoor where some one else waswaiting to let you come inside.